Come Home
by Fyrin Sparks
Summary: Sherlock may be gone, but he's left one hell of a hole in John Watson's life. This is about John, because I feel that people sometimes focus to much on Sherlock, and forget that John Watson, though unassuming, is actually incredible. I'm not writing Sherlock in just yet, but he's still mentioned and referenced a ton. Post-Reichenbach. Grieving John.
1. The Letter

Dear Sherlock,

I don't understand. I don't know why you jumped, and maybe I never will, but I know one thing. You were never a fake. You are impossible, and lazy, and arrogant, and a right pain in my arse, but you are also brilliant.

I remember on our first case, when I first met you, I don't remember what I asked Lestrade exactly, but I remember his response. "Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one." I think you are now. I don't know why you jumped, but I know in the days before that damn fiasco, you were good. You apologized and smiled. You were more compassionate.

I also remember that you told Anderson, that same night, that you were a 'highly functioning sociopath'. Now that, that I take issue with. You may not have realized, Sherlock, but you have so much heart. I think the real reason you try to lock away all of your emotions is that you can't handle them all. I believe that you have a great brain, you always did and always will, but I also believe that you have a great heart. One that you do your best to lock away for fear of getting hurt.

That same night, when you made that comment about Jennifer Wilson not being upset about her daughter, you noticed. A sociopath wouldn't have. You noticed how everyone stopped and you immediately turned to me and asked. You asked, when no sociopath would have cared. There are so many more times I could describe to prove it to you, saving Irene, and yeah, I knew, saving Mrs. Hudson, defending your friends, the pool and so many other times. You were a good friend you know.

There are so many things I want to ask you. Now I may never know the answers. No, you know what, no. I refuse to believe that. You can't be dead. You just can't. One day you'll come home. You'll come home to me, to all of us. And I'll punch you and scream and cry, and you'll know it's because I care. I care way too damn much. You're my best friend Sherlock. Hell, you're more than that. I wouldn't drop dates and work for a 'friend'. I don't know what that makes us, but I know I want you home.

I want you home, you hear me? I want you to play your blasted violin at bloody three o'clock in the morning. I want to have to force you to eat because your body is just 'transport'. I want there to be more smiley faces painted and blasted onto the wall, you hear me? I want you to rant about random experiments that I'll have to clean up. I want you to go off on a tirade about that damn deerstalker. I want you to be insufferable and sulk on that horrid couch that I can't hardly look at anymore.

I meant what I said at your grave you know. I do owe you. I was depressed you know, oh of course you do. I didn't eat much, kinda like now. It's not that I want to die, it's just that food just doesn't interest me anymore. And then you swept in, with your coat and your turned up collar and mysterious cheekbones. It became all dashing about, saving people and hunting down criminals. It was a good life you know. We would giggle inappropriately at crime scenes and I would try to keep you from traumatizing witnesses. I had a friend again. I had someone that I cared about, someone to look after. Maybe that's what I needed. I don't think I missed the war or the stress, I think I missed having to look after a friend in a situation they couldn't take care of on their own. Now, the damn limp is back. Psychosomatic, I know, but that doesn't stop it from hurting like hell. The nightmares are back too. They had faded, but now they're back. With appearances of you falling again and again. Of you bleeding out on the pavement and me helpless to save you.

I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said you were a machine. There is no way you could have not cared about Mrs. Hudson being hurt, I guess that was a ruse to get me away. Away from the final battle between you and that tosser. I don't know what he had over you, to make you jump. I don't know why you did it, but I know you must have had no choice, because there is no way in hell you would leave me on purpose. We found that he'd killed himself. If he did that before you jumped, why'd you jump, if after, what did he say to make you go that far? Did he have a gun pointed at you? No, that can't be it.

Please Sherlock, come home. I don't care what the entire bleeding world says, you're not a fake, you're you. You're my friend, my flatmate, and I shouldn't love you but I do, so please, please for the love of God, come home.


	2. The Visit

The flowers where blue. A beautiful dark blue, the same color of his scarf. I didn't know their names, I'd been sort of out of it when the florist was explaining them to me. I thought he'd like them. In the least, after he was done scolding me for being a _'sentimental_ idiot'.

The sky was a clear, bright blue. The type of blue that is only found after a long and relentless rain. It was, to be frank, a stunning day. Even the damn birds were happily chirping away.

I walked slowly, making my way past graves. Graves of grandfathers and grandmothers. Of mothers and fathers, of sons and daughters, of lovers and brothers, of husbands and wives. And in far, far too many heartbreaking cases, of the children, who never got the chance to grow up. I walked past all of the names. For that's all we are after we're gone. Just a name, and hopefully, the memories in the mind of those we loved, and those we were loved by.

I paused at last at a rather curious grave. The headstone was pitch black, and polished. There were only two words engraved in white onto the surface. "Sherlock Holmes". This was all that was left of that madman. Just two words carved onto a stone, in a silent graveyard, with a pile of rotting bones and flesh underneath. In the dark, damp earth.

I placed the flowers carefully before the grave. "Hello again." I spoke at last, finding my words and forcing them past a dry throat after many moments of silence. "Hello again Sherlock. It's been too long, I know that I really do. A whole month." I fell silent as the implications of that settled into my heart. An entire month, without Sherlock Holmes. A month with me being without my madman, and him being without his blogger. "And I'm very sorry about that, I truly am. But I'm sorry Sherlock, I just. I just-I couldn't come. I couldn't come to the place where my best friend was buried. Where one of the only people I've ever really cared about was left to rot in the dirt." My voice was hardly above a whisper, but I knew that if I tried to speak louder, my voice would crack, and he'd somehow be able to hear all the emotion still present in my voice.

My lips twitched into a small and rather pathetically sad smile. "I still can't believe you're dead you know. I keep thinking to myself, _any day. Any day now he is going to walk through that door, and I'm going to give him hell for leaving me alone again. _I can't help but feel that you're still alive." I let out a short, humorless bark of laughter. "There's honestly a large part of me that thinks that you must have bugged your own tombstone and are listening to this entire thing."

"I miss you, you know. And no matter what I said, no matter any of that, please, know this. I care-cared for you Sherlock. And I honestly don't know how long it's going to take, but I will hunt down that bastards web and kill every last bleeding one of them." My lips twisted into a cold smile. "In fact, I've already started. Mycroft, the bastard, is helping me, since he owes me for all eternity for giving Moriarty what he needed against you."

_I love you, you idiot. I fucking love you. I want you to come home to me. To wrap me in those spindly arms of yours and take me back to the way things were. _I could think, and even write those things, but I couldn't say them out loud just yet. What I could say was this, "Lestrade needs you back on the cases. Molly says hello, she seems much quieter these days, can't say I know why, other than the obvious. But I don't think that's the only reason. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't stop crying you know. Kept sobbing for days on end. Even now, whenever violin music starts up I-she gets teary." I took a deep breathe, "I need you too you know. Far too much. It's been to quiet, and I miss the sound of gunshots echoing up to my room. I miss your papers lying everywhere. And everything is all just too damn boring without you around. People still come around asking for help on cases. I help when I can, but these days, far too many people are dying due to the, how did you say it, the _ineptitude_ of the police and private detectives."

I was starting to lose it now. "I need you back in my life. I never realized how much you really meant to me until you were gone, and now I need you back." My voice cracked on the last word. Trying to keep together, I got up from where I'd been kneeling on the ground before my best friends grave and whispered, "Come home to me you great bloody git." The last thing I could say came out in a broken whisper before I turned and swiftly walked away.

"I love you, so come home to me Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Authors Note

**Alright, I'm going to put in a little authors note here. Thank you to those who have been reading, it means the world to me. I can't exactly apologize to those who cried, since I cried while writing it, and it's sort of a compliment if you cried while reading it. **

**I don't think I'm going to write the reunion scene just yet, I'd say I will wait until after the new season is out, but that's a ways away and I don't want to make you wait that long.**

**I know I haven't been that regular about updates, but I'll try to be better, at least once if not twice a week, most likely when I don't have school work. Bless all of you that are reading, and keep on doing so please!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters from BBC Sherlock, although I do own mine if I put some in here. **

**Next Chapter: The Dreams**


	4. The Dreams

**New chapter! YAY! Again, I don't own any characters from BBC's Sherlock.**

"Why are you here John? You haven't been here since Sh-... Is everything alright?" Ellen Thompson, my therapist. Always worrying, although this time she may have been right to worry.

"It's been a year." I murmured. I was slightly dazed by the thought of that actually. "An entire year since my best friend, the greatest man I've ever known, jumped off a building and killed himself." Ellen simply nodded her head sagely, as if this was something she saw every day. That would usually irritate me, but not that day. That day I was having trouble remembering to breathe, let alone having enough energy for anger. "It's been a year." I whisper, still not quiet believing.

"John, you wouldn't have come to me if it was just an anniversary of his death," Note how she won't say his name until I do, "after all, you didn't come after it'd been a month. What's different? What's new?" Clever Ellen, clever. "Is everything okay at your job? I hear you've been traveling quiet a lot recently, want to say anything about that?" Oh Ellen, if I told you what I was doing while traveling, you'd put me away. I mean sure, Mycroft would have me out in a heartbeat, but you'd still be frightened.

I was waking out of my stupor now. I could feel the chill closing in and I had to fight it off. The cold that threatened to consume my heart and my soul. Just like they thought it had consumed his, even though it hadn't. A small smile graced my lips without me realizing it. Ellen gasped, perhaps she was surprised to see the sadness in my eyes. Because it was there. So much sadness, that it just seemed routine to feel heartbroken now.

"I've been traveling on Sherlocks behalf. " That was true enough. I was. The fact that I was killing on his behalf, I'd keep to myself.

"How so?" Ellen tilted her head to one side, curious and slightly confused.

"Sherlock left some loose ends when he-. Anyway, I've been clearing them up for him." My tone was dismissive enough that she knew not to pry.

"Well then, why are you here?" Fine, enough games. The smile slipped from my lips, and I could feel the blood draining out of my face. "John?" My eyes grew even more sorrowful.

"I've been having dreams." And such dreams they were.

"Nightmares?" Ellen, come on, you're cleverer than that. Did she honestly think that the _soldier_, the _heartless killer _and _murderer_ would go to her about a string of bad dreams?

"No, no not nightmares. I'm used to the nightmares, I've been having them for the past year. The dreams themselves aren't bad at all, they-... they are just..." I trailed off, unable to explain.

"What are they like, if they aren't bad?" Ellen glossed over my admission to having nightmares for the last year. She probably had already guessed that.

"They-... I-" I was getting frustrated now, it was impossible to explain!

"Just, describe them to me John. What happens in your dreams?" Her voice was perpetually smooth and soothing. I wonder if you had to take a class for it before become a therapist?

"In my-my dreams," I took a deep breath to steady myself before continuing, "Sherlock and I just solved a case. He's practically _glowing _with smug superiority and he's in high spirits. Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Molly had come over to celebrate. He's telling a story. I don't remember what of, but I remember what he looked like as he told it." My eyes slowly unfocussed as I became overwhelmed with the memory. I grin broadly, the first real smile I've had in a long time. "His eyes where full of life, his face slightly flushed, his hair generally disheveled and his arms gesturing as his legs moved him about the room, acting out this story. We were all laughing, with glasses of wine in our hands... We were happy." I came back to earth slightly, gulping as I remembered just exactly were and when I was. "Later in the evening, Sherlock brings out his violin. Our guests have gone home, Mrs. Hudson is back downstairs, and it's just me and him. He starts to play. It's something new, something I've never heard before in my life, but it wrenches at my heart. It's just so beautiful and serene, as if he's taken contentment and love itself and transformed it into _this._" I took a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's a beautiful dream. What's the problem?" She didn't seem to understand.

"The problem is when I wake up!" I snapped at her. "The problem is that when I wake up, I _remember, _I remember that he's dead. That I'll never hear him laugh again. That I'll never get to see his eyes light up when he's solved it at last. That I'll never chase after him because he's done it again, that brilliant idiot has messed up again and I have to help him. I remember. Tha-That he threw himself onto the pavement and he's dead." At this statement my heart just breaks. I could see the sympathy inside of Ellen's eyes, and I just couldn't take it. I stood up and walked to the door, before pausing and whispering brokenly back at her, "The problem is that he's dead, and the only way I'll ever see him again is in dreams that break my heart." I walked out of the door, not looking back. And knowing that if I did, I'd see the pity in her eyes, and she'd see the tears in mine.

**I know, I know, it's a bleeding angst fest. Sorry, but I kinda love it that way. No swearing in this one, I just realized that. Interesting. **


	5. The Final Loose End

**Hello lovely readers! Thank you so much for your support, it really does mean the world to me. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any character from BBC's Sherlock or any other version of Sherlock Holmes. But I do own the plot of this story.**

_"Sherlock left some loose ends when he-. Anyway I've been clearing them up for him." _If that was true, then I supposed this would be the last loose end. Sebastian Moran, the last of Moriarty's web. He hadn't been easy to find, after all, with me killing almost a third of the organization within a 6 months of Sherlocks passing, and Mycroft using one of his agents to kill another third, he'd gone into hiding. _Really_ far into hiding.

But there I was at last. Standing there, with Sebastian Moran tied to a chair. In the basement of a building scheduled for demolition later that afternoon. It was satisfying, I won't lie. And this time, there was absolutely _no chance_ of him slipping away. The only reason he'd managed before was because Mycroft's _agent_ getting emotional and therefore giving the target a chance to escape.

I wasn't going to kill him yet. No. Not just yet. I needed him to look me in the eyes first. I needed him to tell me why Sherlock had jumped. I'd asked this of every bleeding target I'd hunted down. None would say, or rather, none of them _could_ say. Apparently, The Ally, as I'd taken to calling Mycroft's agent, hadn't gotten any answers either. I knew that it had something to do with snipers. That much was clear. Moriarty had been fond of those. He used them in the Great Game, on me and Sherlock in the pool, and a few other times. But who were the targets? Who could Moriarty have possibly targeted to make Sherlock literally fling himself to the cement and crack his head open. Can you tell I was pissed as all hell at him?

Ah. He was starting to waken.

"Good morning Mr. Sebastian Moran." He jerked his head up, looking around wildly searching for me, eyes unfocussed from the head trauma. _Blunt object to the back of the head. Bleeding and severe concussion, recovery-time; around 4 months, if treated at a hospital_. I wasn't planning on getting the bastard to a hospital. I stood in the shadows, it gave me a sort of dark pleasure to watch him squirm.

"It's the afternoon, or night, depending on how long I've been out." He was reverting back to simple concepts to try and clear his head and get his bearings.

"In our current Beijing, sure, but not at home. In London, it's going on 10 in the morning." I stepped out of the shadows as I spoke. Moran breathed in sharply.

"Oh God, it's you." He chuckled slightly, starting to shake his head before stopping, wincing almost imperceptibly.

"Oh, and who were you expecting?" He looked up at me, with almost... was that _pity?_ I drew myself up to my full height, stalking towards him and glaring as I said, "Who were you expecting, Moran?" He chuckled again before answering.

"Who else? Sherlock Holmes." My heart didn't even falter. I'd heard people tell me that he was the one they expected.

"Sherlock Holmes is rotting in a grave, 2 meters below the surface." This time Moran did cringe fully, not trying to repress his surprise at my description of my best friend, and the acid coating my words. What could I say? I was tired, and I was angry. I was so belong sadness at this point. I was tired of hunting down an entire bloody _crime syndicate_ in my free time. I was just so very, _very _angry. At Moran, at Moriarty, and most of all, the bastard himself who decided to leave me behind. I continued on, "And the only reason you're not joining him at the same sea level is one thing, and one thing alone." My voice was cold. I was a soldier again, a Captain. No more the Doctor, and not much of the Good Man left.

"Oh, and what would that be?" He was wary, and his suspicion showed in his voice. Good.

"You, Sebastian Moran, are going to tell me something that all your predecessors couldn't. Why it is that Sherlock Holmes threw himself to the ground?" I paused. When Moran simply glared, I continued, "And if you tell me this one thing, if _full _mind, then I'll turn you into the police."

Moran snorted and retorted, "Well you sure are giving me one _hell _of a lot of incentive to agree aren't you? Why should I tell you a single goddamned thing?" I grinned, and Moran instinctively tried to get away from the pure malice and cruelty of that smile.

"Sebastian," I said tauntingly, "I have no real desire to kill you, I 'd like to believe that I'm still the good man I started out as. But you see, I honestly detest you, and if I don't kill you, then I'll just have to settle for seeing you rot behind bars all of your life. And since you are the last of your organization," I cut off his retort, "You will be there for life."

"All right fine!" Sebastian growled out at me, "I'll tell you, not like _he _can do anything to me anymore, and you are that _good man_," On those last two words he sneered with derision, "So why the hell not?"

I settled back, stepping back a few paces to make him feel less threatened and to make him relax.

"How much do you know, Watson?" I tensed, that was the first time he'd said my name so far. People only did that sort of thing for emphasis, or when they knew they were going to say this all along. _What are you planning?_ I wondered.

"I know that it must have been something to do with snipers. Something _made_ Sherlock jump, and it had something to do with snipers. That's all I know. Oh, and before you ask, I have asked every damn one of you snipers this question, they said they would die before they answered. Considering I don't have an answer yet, you can guess what happened to them."

He just grinned, then continued, "Moriarty tempted Sherlock with the thought of a code, _In a world of locked doors, the man who holds the key is King. And honey you should see me in a crown. _That's what Moriarty said."

"Yeah, I know that bit." I interrupted, motioning my hand for him to hurry up.

"Well, that's why Sherlock led Moriarty onto the roof, he thought he'd figured out the code. Only there was no code." He smiled at that.

"Yes, I know, we figured that out, inside jobs."

"Oh, so you know more than I expected. Mycroft?" He asked genuinely surprised.

I snorted and replied, "Lestrade, actually. He was a friend of Sherlock's too, and he needed something to focus all the anger at."

"Interesting. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that Moriarty needed Sherlock to commit suicide for his image to be tarnished beyond all repair, so he used the one weakness Sherlock Holmes had against him to make him jump." I sighed, not enjoying his attempts to be enigmatic.

"Yeah, yeah, cut the dramatics, what weakness?"

He huffed before answering, "You've referenced before that Sherlock Holmes had a heart, and you were right. So, Moriarty pointed his snipers at the three people he held in it."

"Moriarty threatened Sherlock's friends? I thought he was supposed to be smart!"

At this Moran glared and snapped, "Well it worked, didn't it?"

I took a sharp breath before growing out, "Who did Moriarty threaten?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He was actually surprised!

"Just answer the damn question."

"You. You, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson in-fact."

"And if he didn't jump, the snipers would shoot. But there had to be a code, a code word or something that Moriarty used to call them off. They couldn't all be watching Sherlock jump. Why didn't Sherlock get the damn code!" My voice worked it's way up from a quiet whisper to a demanding shout, as I paced forward so that I was towering above Moran.

"Moriarty killed himself before Sherlock could get the code from him!" Moran shouted back, slightly panicked at the frankly unhinged look in my eyes.

I leaned back and smiled, "Thank you so much, for your cooperation." I walked forward more, walking around Moran, who twisted his head around to try and follow my movements. "You've been so helpful."

"You said you wouldn't kill me! You said if I talked I wouldn't have to die!" Moran was honestly and I couldn't care less. I simply smiled a smile that didn't reach my eyes and cocked the gun in my hands. Sherlocks gun.

"Yes, and you said I was still a _good man, _but I haven't been a good man since the man I-" Well what was the harm, I was going to shoot him in the skull in a few moments anyways, "Since the man I loved took a swan dive. To save my life according to you. Good-bye Sebastian Moran." My voice as cold as a glacier for that last sentence, I disengaged the safety and shot one warning shot. Into his head.

The last loose end left by one Sherlock Holmes, officially tied up. My posture sagged, the anger leaving my body, and I allowed myself to feel the sorrow and guilt that Moran's explanation caused. A choked sob forced its way passed my throat, and before I knew it, I was kneeling on the floor, with my head in my hands, sobbing my bleeding heart out.

_He did it for us. For all of us. He killed himself for me. And I never said. He cared that much, and I never told him I loved him. _That thought only made me cry harder.

After a good long while, I left the building, texted Mycroft to send a clean-up crew, and allowed myself to breath deeply for the first time in 1 and a half years. For the first time since Sherlock's death. Maybe, just maybe, I could start to recover. But I knew I'd never care for someone the same way again, nor would I leave Baker Street. I would never forget him.

A great peace settled into my heart at those thoughts, and I made my way to the flat I was staying at in Beijing. It was time to pack up and go home.

**I thought it would be really cool if instead of Sherlock killing the last one, John took on Moran. Plus I needed some action in this story, I really did. **

**Review if you'd like, I'd like to know what you guys think. Honestly, it's more like I'm reading the story rather than writing it! Until next time, thank you so much for reading, it means the world!**


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